


Amber Courage

by night_reveals



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Bonding, Consent Issues, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:19:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/night_reveals/pseuds/night_reveals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the pack defeats the Alphas, Boyd and Stiles lay low together.</p><p>“Dude, I’m long, I’m strong, and I’m down to get the friction on. Let’s <i>go</i>.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amber Courage

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a section of [For Want of Extra-Effective Aspirin](http://archiveofourown.org/works/525643) by beanarie, who had Stiles and Boyd drunkenly interacting. My brain, of course, took this to a quite different place. 
> 
> Many thanks to eternalsojourn for her tireless efforts as beta.
> 
> [The "consent issues" tag refers to the consumption of alcohol; otherwise, both Stiles & Boyd are fully on board with the nasty.]
> 
> The song referred to in the story is "Baby Got Back" by Sir Mix A Lot ([x](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4he79krseU)).

 

“Woah,” Stiles said as he walked into the foyer, head swiveling to take it all in. “This is your house? We’re staying here for two days?”

Boyd threw his house keys down onto the antique oak table sitting at the front of the hall, wincing belatedly when he realized what he had done. His mom loved that table as much as she loved anything. “We’re not breaking and entering, if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

“What?” Stiles twisted to look around more and blanched, hand going to his side. “No, no man, I just mean -- you’re richer than Jackson.”

“My parents, maybe,” muttered Boyd.

“Why the hell do you work at the ice rink?” asked Stiles, walking past Boyd without an invitation before swiveling on his heel suddenly. Tension still thrummed through Boyd from the earlier fighting, and he felt his claws snick out at the movement. “You made me pay fifty bucks just to get the keys to it that one time. Not cool at all. Why’d you want so much?”

This was the problem with Stiles: he asked questions, even if he didn’t care about the answers. Boyd never had anyone ask to know about him before. It was a novel feeling that spread through his chest, and the more Stiles wormed into Boyd’s life, the more potent it grew. Even if Stiles never cared about the answers to the questions he asked, maybe Boyd would answer them anyway. For fun.

“Milkshakes,” he replied.

Stiles scoffed. “Milkshakes? How many milkshakes could one werewolf possibly need?”

“My parents came up from nothing.” Boyd slipped his hands into his leather jacket, his finger poking out a hole in the pocket, where his claw had once snagged. “They want me to do the same. I have to buy my non-essentials myself.”

Stiles’ opened mouth slowly closed, his brow darkening. “Oh.” He fidgeted then ducked his head. “So where’s the stuff you made?”

Boyd led the way to the freezer, inexplicable disappointment coming over him.

-

The shot burned on the way down -- quite literally. The wolfsbane striped Boyd’s skin cells, his esophagus and his stomach, laying nerves bare and allowing the alcohol to go straight into his bloodstream. He couldn’t help the growl after taking it, even as his body healed itself from the tiny hurt easily. 

“That’s not absolutely terrifying at all,” noted Stiles from a few feet away on the same couch, his eyes lazy as he watched Boyd take another. 

“Whatever,” said Boyd before his third. He was big and that was usually a blessing, but it meant he didn’t get tipsy without actual effort. After tonight, he wanted the vagueness that alcohol gave him. 

“Does Derek know you can make this stuff?” asked Stiles off-handedly. 

“No. And you won’t tell him.”

“Tell?” Stiles put on a look of affront.”Do I look like a tattle-tale?”

Boyd glared, hand wrapped around his shot glass. 

“I won’t say anything,” promised Stiles for good measure. Then as an aside, “Derek is totally the type to kill the messenger.”

Boyd smirked at that, then offered Stiles a double. Surprisingly Stiles took it with no coughing or spluttering, tossing the amber liquid back like water. 

“You drink whiskey?” 

Stiles shrugged. “Dad keeps it around the house.”

Boyd nodded and watched as Stiles poured himself another shot, his fingers suddenly knowing and capable instead of just long and in-the-way. “And he’s cool with you drinking underage?”

Stiles paused, the glass almost to his lips, then threw it back. “Now we’re even,” he announced, clunking the glass back onto the marble slab of a table. It seemed like he wasn’t going to answer, and Boyd felt the same disappointment from earlier bloom under his skin. But then Stiles clasped his hands together and shifted on the couch.

“He’s already drunk when I join, you know?” Stiles’ voice was quiet, alcohol adding the tiniest of lisps to his words. “It’s how we talk, now.” He gestured to the bottle sitting on the table before them, the one Boyd spent weeks doctoring so he could get drunk again. 

“Oh,” replied Boyd.

“Yeah.” Stiles cleared his throat, and poured them both another shot, which they took with no fanfare. At last a buzz was making its way up Boyd’s spine to curl at the base of his head, a slow, warm throbbing that encouraged him to relax, to get caught up in Stiles’ slowing movements and long blinks, to remember what Stiles felt like wrapped around him. “So,” started Stiles. “Your parents won’t miss the whiskey, right?”

“Naw.” Boyd shook his head and the room swirled a bit around him. “Dad’s in LA. Mom’s in New York. They won’t be back in Beacon Hills for a while yet.”

“They don’t live here?”

“Did I say that?” asked Boyd sharply. “They come back. When they can. They’re busy with work.”

“Right,” trailed off Stiles.

Boyd sipped at his next shot, his tongue curling under the wolfsbane-infused liquid, skin shredding off to give it the slightest tang of blood. “I’ve got a credit card for food staples,” he added, uneasy. “I’m fine.”

Stiles shrugged and grabbed the last half of Boyd’s drink and downed it. “Sure, man. That’s why you wanted my fifty.”

“You ever gonna let that go?”

“Nope.” Stiles smirked and jumped up from the couch, tottering on one leg for a second. Before he could think, Boyd had a hand out on Stiles’ hip, steadying him. Boyd had learned that Stiles had more muscle than anyone expected, but his hips were still lanky, skin stretched thin over bone. Stiles blanched for the second time that night, and suddenly Boyd remembered how the last Alpha left alive had tossed Stiles into a brick wall. Boyd let go.

“Listen, listen. I have an idea for when you need money.” Stiles stumbled his way over to the fireplace mantle a few feet away and pointed to a piece of artwork, a black and red piece of ceramic set under a metal sculpture. He picked it up, turning the pot this way and that to squint at it in the dim light. “This has got to be worth at least a few hundred bucks on craigslist. You can totally sell stuff.”

“That’s my grandma’s urn.”

As if the ceramic in his hands was all of a sudden blazing, Stiles’ eyes went wide and he fumbled it, jaw dropping in disbelief as he attempted to catch it again. Jumping up from the couch, Boyd tried to save it, but the alcohol had obviously been waiting for him to get vertical before it made its presence known, and Boyd stumbled into Stiles, knocking him into a nearby wall. 

The sound of the ceramic shattering was like a sheet of ice breaking under foot, the noise filling the room with a sense of impending doom.

“Oh, shit,” whispered Stiles, his hands over his eyes and his voice cracking. “Oh shit, Boyd. I am so, so sorry.”

Boyd bit the inside of his lip and he looked down at Stiles, who was slumped against the wall he’d been knocked into. 

“Do it quick,” said Stiles, dropping his hands from his face but keeping his eyes closed.

“Do what quick?” 

“You’re gonna gut me, right?”

Boyd rolled his eyes at the theatrics and smiled. “Maybe not this time.”

Stiles popped one eye open, peeking up at Boyd through his eyelashes. When he must have seen something that let him know death wasn’t imminent, he opened both and looked towards the floor -- 

\-- where the very broken, very _empty_ pot lay shattered.

Stiles’ mouth dropped open, which was a habit for him, and something Boyd kind of enjoyed making happen. A deep chuckle started in Boyd’s stomach and worked its way up, escaping out into the night. 

“Asshole!” Stiles started shaking his head, but Boyd could see the beginning of a relieved smile on his face. Stiles ran a hand over his buzzed hair. “Jesus, man. I thought I’d really tipped over your grandmother’s ashes.”

“Your face, you should have seen it,” sighed Boyd, getting one last laugh out at Stiles’ expense. The laughter made him unsteady on his feet, and he collapsed back onto the couch, trying to catch his breath. It wasn’t even that funny, really -- well, Stiles’ face was always funny -- but they were _alive_ , all of them: he and Stiles, and Scott, Lydia, Derek, Erica, Isaac, Jackson, Allison. Against all odds, they had escaped, bloodied and bruised but still breathing. The Sheriff was giving them two days to lay low in various parts of town while police were out in force, but for all intents the Alphas were gone and it was _over_. At last.

“We’re alive,” realized Boyd.

This time it was Stiles’ turn to laugh as he skirted around the jagged pieces of ceramic to join Boyd on the couch, closer than he had been before. “Yeah. We definitely are. Though I kind of want to punch your freakin’ face right now, if I’m honest.”

“You can,” offered Boyd, turning his chin. “I won’t hit back.” He meant it, too. It would only hurt for a second.

Stiles scoffed and leaned forward to pour more shots. “I’d probably just break my hand on your furry, platinum jaw.”

“You did pretty good with the alphas tonight.”

“Did you miss the part where my dainty self was creamed into the floor multiple times before Derek did the -- ” Stiles made a clawing, ripping motion at his own throat. 

“No. I remember.”

“Yeah, well I’m like a walking minced meat commercial tonight, so let’s take these -- ”

“Oh,” interrupted Boyd. “You should have said. You know we forget.” The longer that Boyd was a werewolf, the harder he found remembering human limits and pain. “I think we have some bandages. Somewhere.”

“Don’t bother,” replied Stiles, raising his sixth shot in a sloppy salute before taking it. “You’re already the perfect nurse.” 

Confiscating the now-empty shot glass was easy for Boyd, though Stiles sniffed at him childishly for it and said, "I take it back. License revoked.”

“Uh huh. Have you got scrapes? Should at least put rubbing alcohol on them to disinfect them.”

Stiles collapsed backwards to sprawl over his half of the couch, his knees nudging Boyd’s. Slowly, face twisting slight in pain, he lifted his shirt. The whole right side of his body from the middle of his ribs to the line of his jeans was a mottled red and light blue, the deeper bruises beginning to show themselves in darkening patches. 

“Damn. Disinfectant won’t do anything for that.”

Looking down at his own body, Stiles moaned pitifully. 

“Hurts?” asked Boyd, trying for sympathy, for which he got a _no shit, Sherlock_ look. Then Stiles bit his lip and flicked his eyes away and back. Boyd tensed. 

“I heard --,” started Stiles, wiggling a little on the sofa to get more comfortable, his shirt still wracked up and exposing his body. Boyd checked his hand when it tried to reach for Stiles, unsure whether his intention had been to cover him back up or expose him more. “ -- about what you did for Erica.”

Boyd parsed the words all at once, and glared at nothing. “She wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.”

“‘member when me ‘n her were taken last month?

Boyd nodded, thinking briefly of the rescue mission Derek, Lydia and he had thrown together in the middle of the night to save them.

“She told me then. We thought -- I dunno what we thought. That we weren’t, you know, coming home, maybe. So she told me how you helped her that night she ran into the hunters’ trap in the woods. Said when she tried it on Isaac later, it didn’t work.”

Boyd nodded again, more reluctantly this time. Even with the drink in his veins, sobriety came over him like cold water. “I’m the only one who can do it to people and not just animals.”

“Could you do it to me?” asked Stiles, warily, like he already expected to be rejected. “Just -- just the once. I thought drinking’d help but it’s not.”

It was a long second before Boyd answered.

“When I found Erica that night.” He ran a hand over his face. “She...you didn’t see her. Body all -- mangled. That trap cut through her torso deep enough her guts were -- ” He twisted his hands in front of his stomach, miming things falling out from it. “I thought she was as good as dead. I didn’t even know what I was doing when I touched her. All I knew was I didn’t want her to die in pain. I want to help you,” he continued. “But I’m not supposed to. Derek said to never do it again.”

Already sprawled out on the couch, there wasn’t much Stiles could do to deflate, but his face did crumble, resignation masking it quickly. He asked the questions anyways. That was Stiles; always asking. “Why not?”

“I guess....it’s like morphine, yeah? Addictive. To both people.”

“Getting your aches taken away, that’s the obvious one.” Stiles looked up, eyes searching. 

“Think if you could do that for someone. Think how they’d look at you.” Boyd shrugged. “It feels good. Too good, maybe.”

“If you did it for me, I promise I wouldn’t worship the ground you walk on or anything.” Ginger but quick, Stiles sat up again, his shirt falling back down. “But I get it, I do. Don’t worry about it.”

Boyd cast around for something to say.

“One more shot?” He picked up the half-empty whisky bottle and poured one. Stiles reached out to take it, and Boyd shot his hand down to Stiles’ wrist. “Wait for me.” 

Stiles’ feeble tugging was useless against Boyd’s strength, and Boyd simply watched as Stiles tried to twist his wrist this way and that. He was relatively sure he wasn’t hurting Stiles, who wasn’t hunching over, or frantic. In the low light, Boyd could see Stiles’ eyes, the same color as the whiskey they drank, and he remembered how they looked blown wide with pleasure, that one time after the full moon they’d indulged in the thing growing between them. 

Eventually, Boyd realized that Stiles wasn’t struggling anymore. 

“We gonna do this again?” Stiles swayed forward, his breath hitting Boyd’s cheek, a rush of wolfsbane and whiskey.

Boyd flicked his eyes to Stiles’ pink, bitten lips, remembering what they felt like pressed against his own. The Alphas had, at least partly, been the reason for holding back. Now they were all dead. Shit. Yeah, they were gonna do this again. 

With his wrist still held tight, Stiles leaned forward, nudging his nose against Boyd’s softly. Breathing in, Boyd could smell the fight still lingering on Stiles: adrenaline and blood, dried sweat and the muted softness of his deodorant. In the pack, Boyd wasn’t the one with the best nose -- that was Jackson, strangely enough -- but if he breathed deep he could smell the first uncurling of something sharper under the struggle, a scent he knew from that night a month ago. 

Against Boyd’s lips, Stiles murmured, “Smellin’ my feelings?” 

Boyd snorted. “Feelings don’t have scents.” 

Stiles shifted, coming closer to wrap a hand around Boyd’s shoulder from the side, grimacing once as he did. Boyd tugged the wrist in his hand, and Stiles scrambled against his front, throwing a leg over Boyd’s hips and settling onto his lap. Chest to chest they sat, faces perfectly aligned, air contracting until all that was between them was want and the thick darkness of the room, heated breaths mingling. 

“Not that I need to smell you to know how you fe -- ” Lips on his own interrupted Boyd, meeker than he remembered, like Stiles expected to be pushed off for daring. Carefully, Boyd dragged Stiles’ hand to his chest, resting it there until Stiles got the hint and rubbed. One of Stiles’ sides was raw and broken, but that left his back and his other side open to Boyd’s hands. Squirming, Stiles sighed into the kiss when Boyd pressed him closer, hand right above his tailbone, where Stiles’ spine curved in to create a perfect resting place. 

Everything went hazy as they kissed slowly, alcohol making their movements tentative, Stiles panting in pain when Boyd tugged him too close, the tiny gasps going straight into Boyd’s mouth. Boyd fisted the clothes at Stiles’ back, like he could rid Stiles of the lingering smell of sweat and adrenaline as simply as wringing a t-shirt. The need to possess flared up in Boyd, unfamiliar and uninvited. It would be so easy to pin a human down on the couch, and Stiles would give over eventually, long, white limbs trembling with pain, eyes wide with surprise and disbelief.

Shaking with keeping himself in control, Boyd drew a hand up Stiles’ back, two fingers on either side of his spine, and Stiles stretched languidly under the touch, grappling closer with an arm around Boyd’s neck and a muttered, “Oh, fuck.” His weight was barely noticeable, and again unbidden images of picking him up and -- 

Boyd jerked his head away from Stiles, lips smacking apart. 

“‘s wrong?” asked Stiles, running a hand over Boyd’s head. 

“Nothing.” Boyd fit his hands under Stiles’ thighs, lifting as he laid down. “C’mon, on top.” 

“Oh, gettin’ freaky on me, huh?” Stiles wiggled once he was firmly on Boyd’s lap, obviously delighted by his new perch. With the change in position, Boyd felt the drive to _take_ lessen, and he let out a sigh, fear leaving with his breath. 

“Just move,” he said, one hand on Stiles’ unmarred hip and one under the front of Stiles’ shirt, playing with the trail of hair under his belly-button. 

“Does this count as a lap dance?” Stiles rocked forward into Boyd’s hardness, and Boyd bit through his lip with a fang. Fuck. “There’s no music. Maybe you should sing.” 

“Stiles.” Boyd meant for it to come out as a warning, but instead it came out too light, too sweet, a begging groan. He bucked up to compensate, jostling Stiles. 

“'s okay, I'm a great tenor.” On top of Boyd, Stiles circled his hips around awkwardly, putting a hand on Boyd’s belt. “Baby got back,” he sang drunkenly and out-of-tune. 

“Jesus, stop.” Boyd tried to quell his laughter, because he knew it would only encourage Stiles, but he couldn’t completely keep it in. “Your singing voice is awful.”

Abruptly, Stiles stopped moving. “Are you saying I don’t have back? I have a lot of back.”

Boyd grit his teeth and let his hand go from gripping Stiles’ side to gripping Stiles’ ass, the full curve of it under his hand, more muscle there than he expected. 

“See -- ” Stiles was in the middle of saying smugly when Boyd flipped him over, unable to take it any longer. Stiles was bad enough; it only figured that tipsy Stiles was worse. “Ow,” he said softly, legs spreading wide for Boyd on the couch. 

Boyd stared down at him, meeting his darkening eyes, and gathered his wrists in one hand to pin them above his head to the couch. Leaning down, Boyd kissed him to silence, thorough and claiming, until Stiles was wrapping his legs around Boyd’s hips and trying anything to get friction.

Ignoring Stiles’ growing desperation, Boyd dipped down to the white column of Stiles’ neck, nudging it up so he had room to work, to leave a dark red-blue mark of his own. There were enough bruises from people outside the pack on Stiles already, Boyd told himself. It was only right that he carried marks from his true pack. Under his tongue, Stiles’ skin was sweaty at first, but a few licks took the sheen of exertion away, leaving only his thudding heartbeat and clear skin behind. Fighting back his own needs, Boyd kept his hands mere suggestions on Stiles’ body, moving him this way and that. 

“Jeans,” said Stiles after a long moment of rocking together, pressed thigh to thigh and chest to chest. “Jeans, now.” Boyd followed the command, letting Stiles’ hands go and rucking down their jeans together, their boxers peeking out. All of their clothes came off quickly after that, boxers and shirts joining the pants on the floor, their movements hurried but inexact from the alcohol. Stiles fumbled as he tried to divest himself of everything without hurting himself further, growling a little in his throat, a habit he’d picked up some months back to mock the pack with but that he’d accidentally started using for real. 

With a hand, Boyd slowed Stiles’ tugging, helping him out of his jacket and then his t-shirt, thumbing at where it stuck on an ear on the way up. Stiles shivered at the touch, sending up a low look as he laid back on the couch under Boyd, naked.

Carefully, Boyd blanketed Stiles, listening for any caught breaths or tensed muscles that would tell him Stiles was hurting. Always so aware of his own fragility, Stiles had a reputation for keeping his mouth shut when he was hurt, especially around the wolfy parts of the pack. Derek had raked him over the coals more than once about it, but Boyd knew he and the others too easily forgot what it was to be human, to be breakable. 

Stiles huffed against his ear. 

“Dude, I’m long, I’m strong, and I’m down to get the friction on. Let’s _go_.” 

Boyd lined their bodies up more closely, favoring Stiles’ unhurt side, and began a slow rocking. His cock slid over Stiles’ stomach, not nearly enough to do anything but tease them both, but he was too busy kissing Stiles to worry about that. Six months ago, he’d never thought he’d want some spastic kid like Stiles -- and sometimes Boyd questioned his own attractions -- but yet he did, even moreso now that he knew what hid beneath Stiles’ sputtering and chatter. 

After licking his way into Stiles’ mouth, Boyd pulled back and put a hand at the tender flesh of Stiles’ cheek, running the lightest of touches over it. 

“Ow,” repeated Stiles, eyes at half-mast, his hands on Boyd’s shoulders.

Boyd trailed his finger down, following Stiles’ defined cheekbone until he was pushing against Stiles’ plush bottom lip, spit wetting the tip of his finger. He pushed it into the soft redness of Stiles’ mouth easily, feeling Stiles’ tongue all over his single finger, and he growled lowly. They’d never done anything more than rub off frantically together, but Stiles was making all sorts of promises with his tongue that Boyd was eager to test out. Tonight, though, Stiles was aching and they were both in need of a shower, too much violence lingering between them. Another time. 

Taking control, Stiles grabbed at Boyd’s wrist and licked his palm and fingers. He flicked his eyes down to where they were pressed naked together, their flesh too-hot and ready, and urged Boyd’s hand there to tug at their cocks. 

Small, hot wisps of breath hit Boyd’s cheek on each jack, Stiles’ eyes opened so wide he almost seemed scared, his pupils dilated and hungry for whatever he saw on Boyd’s face. 

“Hey -- ,” said Boyd, before Stiles lifted himself up and kissed him. They passed minutes like that, trading breath and kisses in the dim stillness as they grew closer to coming. 

“Oh fuck,” was the only warning Stiles gave before he finally crested, biting his lip harshly and throwing his head back into the couch cushions like it _hurt_. His come splashed up onto his stomach and rolled down his torso to his hurt side, off-white on the dappled red and blue of bruising that was his skin. The smell of it came over Boyd, salty and free, all because of him, and he shook apart over Stiles, marking Stiles’ body. 

One hand on his softening length and one propping himself up over Stiles, Boyd watched as Stiles brought a hand up and dragged a finger through the come splattered on his stomach, right at the soft give of his belly. Only his new senses allowed Boyd to feel the tiniest of shudders that went through Stiles as he touched his own skin again, mouth open as he did. 

“Jesus,” said Stiles meaninglessly. 

“Yeah,” agreed Boyd, dropping both hands to the couch to hold himself up.

“If we ever get beyond handjobs, I think I’ll probably just die of hotness. You’d better pick out a grave for me now.” 

Strangely flattered, Boyd ducked his head. “Whatever, man.”

“Seriously. And funerals aren’t cheap.”

“That’s okay,” replied Boyd. “I can just sell off my grandma’s ashes, right?”

Stiles looked abashed for all of two seconds. Then, “She’ll be like a genie in a vase, traveling the world.” 

Boyd growled. 

“Oh sorry, that’s your grandmom,” Stiles bit his red lips again, and Boyd decided to take pity. Orgasm had obviously made him weak. 

“One of my grandmas is living out in Texas and one is in Louisiana.”

Stiles blinked and narrowed his eyes. “So neither is currently dust in a vase?”

“Nope,” said Boyd, enunciating perfectly. 

“Oh my god,” moaned Stiles, slapping a hand over his own face. “You are such an asshole.” 

“Yep,” agreed Boyd, smirking down at Stiles before he kissed him, just because he could. 

~

Later that night they lay out in Boyd’s queen-sized bed, a hand-me-down from his parents that squeaked when anyone moved on it. Under the soft, old blanket their ankles twined together, an unthinking liberty. Stiles laid out on his good side facing Boyd, his arm flung up onto his pillow, his mouth open and lightly pursing against the material in his sleep. Every so often he shifted and his eyes fluttered open, pain apparent in his movements but full cognizance not coming. 

For what felt like the hundredth time, Stiles grimaced, his hand clenching as a wave of pain went through him. 

Boyd sighed and stretched out his hand, wrapping it around Stiles’ naked hip. What Derek and Stiles didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. 

Boyd drifted into that lazy place between he and Stiles where the pain existed, riding nerves freely, and thought of shunting it out. It emptied from Stiles as the darkest black on Boyd’s skin, slipping through his veins and curling around his heart, cooling him. Under the surface pain, Boyd sensed something deeper, a coiled, old pulsing center to Stiles that screamed to be taken away. How much would it soothe Stiles to have that disappear? Derek had never said it was possible to absorb mental pain, but as Boyd pushed his awareness against the writhing center of Stiles, he felt it move and twitch in a way that straightforward aches never did. Boyd took a deep breath -- 

“No,” came a voice, soft but firm. Boyd’s eyes snapped open. Contrary as always, Stiles had awoken right when Boyd needed him to sleep. “That’s mine.”

Hoarse like he’d been shouting, Boyd murmured, “Yeah,” and nodded for good measure, stunned at what he’d been about to do.

Stiles took Boyd’s hand and held it between them, his long fingers wrapped around the meat of Boyd’s palm, and squeezed. 

They slept the whole night through.

 

 

 

 


End file.
